Season of the Hound, Season of the Wolf
by sillythings
Summary: Inspired by ASOIAF books rather than the television series. A look at Sansa and Sandor's relationship through the turn of the seasons. Sandor's POV.


** Season of the Hound, Season of the Wolf**

The summers were colder up north. After nine years of summer in King's Landing, the light dusting of snow on the ground was a pleasant surprise to him when he awoke early each morning to continue the long journey from Winterfell to the south with the king's company and new Hand. Everything smelled a bit sharper in this crisp Northern air. Clean.

The Hound was a Westerman, used to living near the sea. At home in King's Landing, it was humid and damp, sometimes a bit fishy when the wind shifted. He'd gone nose blind to those rank odors. The frosty, gray earth and piney, green trees of this northern land, however, had awakened his senses, and he felt a stirring inside him that he'd not felt since he was a boy. Adventure. Hope, maybe.

He enjoyed it during the day, turning his face into the brisk wind as he rode at the young prince's side. But in the evenings, he had to get closer to the fire than he was used to, than he'd like to, in order to stay warm. He snarled to himself, the familiar apprehension twisted in his gut when he huddled near the crackling hearth, and he spat dismissively at the notion of being hopeful about anything. Bloody cold. Bloodly fires. He shivered a bit, vaguely hearing King Robert boast drunkenly about his exploits at the Trident, a wench on his lap. That much was a familiar sight.

The queen had gone to bed, taking Joffrey and her golden little lions with her, her mouth set into a humorless line. Ned Stark was still awake, though, listening to his friend, his king. Sandor gave a humorless grunt as he watched Stark's face, long and solemn, trying to mask his disapproval of the king's sloppy drunkenness and bouts of maudlin weeping.

"Lyanna," the fat old drunk sighed into the bosom of girl on his lap. She might have been pretty if she had been clean. The Hound had glanced at her a couple of times himself when they first arrived at the inn, debating whether the warmth of her cunt would be worth the coin. Something in this northern air had woken a hunger in him that he generally was able to drown in good wine, but Robert had gotten to her first and he didn't care to have the king's leavings. Maybe he just needed better wine.

Robert did not notice Stark's disapproval, of course. Too far gone into his cups, as usual, his hands too busy squeezing the arses of every poor woman who passed by. Sandor could see it, though, smell the vague uneasiness of the northern lord who had betrothed his little red-haired princess to Cersei's boy. A pretty little fool, that one.

All the right words she had, spreading her silk skirts in a dainty curtsy, a quiet, practiced smile on her lips. A head full of songs too, he'd wager. Well, Joffrey would soon put that to rights. Show the silly girl how wrong she'd got it. Best to learn sooner rather than later what she'd gotten herself into.

He supposed he, too, had cracked her little fantasy. How many times had he'd felt those wide blue eyes, bright as the summer sky burning into his skin during these last few days on the Kingsroad. He certainly did not fit anyone's idea of a noble courtier. Every time he lifted his gaze, feeling the weight of someone's eyes upon him, he'd catch the swish of flame red hair over her shoulder as she quickly turned her face away to fiddle with the reins of her horse, _such a piss poor rider_, or tug at her gloves. Ned Stark's daughter had known only beauty and love. Couldn't bear to look upon the ugliness of the truth, the ugliness of him. Well, no matter. She'd see plenty worse being married to Joff. He drained his flagon of wine in one last gulp and leaned just a little nearer to the red embers of the fire.

* * *

><p>The salt air blowing through the open windows of the Queen's chambers was thick and humid and mixed in with the savory steam of the midday meal Cersei and Joffrey had invited Sansa Stark to share. A very lame attempt be by Cersei to mitigate some of Joffrey's sadistic behavior toward his betrothed. The need to keep the pretty hostage alive and well most likely led to this little display of happy families. <p>

Joffrey…the boy's violence against the little bird was growing. The things he'd been whispering with a snide little giggle to his loyal dog…those kinds of things should not be in a boy's mind. Anyone's mind. Except maybe Gregor's, but he did not care to think about that. 

"Imagine her squeal, eh, dog at the sight of my steel on our wedding night," the boy king had finished up his newest fantasy just before they had entered the queen's chambers for the meal. The tip of Joffrey's tongue touched his red, pouting lips. 

When the dog did not respond, a fretful Joffrey turned to that bloody Kettleblack brother, the ugly one with the whore's scratches on his cheek. He trailed after Joffrey more often than not nowadays. Joff repeated what he intended to do to his traitor bride. The Kettleblack snickered approvingly. Oswood? He did not care to keep them straight. There were three of the bastards, but this one was the worst. 

"Why wait, yer Grace? A traitor's blood runs hot. You may have to take care of her if she ripens before the wedding." 

The Hound's mouth twitched, twice, three times. 

In the queen's room, the little bird sat politely at the table, using her pretty manners to nibble at the soup, cakes and fruit before her. It was too bloody hot for soup. He shifted imperceptibly, and too hot for white, woolen cloaks, and it was definitely too hot for the long sleeved dress the girl was wearing. The girl lifted the spoon to her polite little lips, and when the wide sleeve belled out, falling away from her wrist, he'd seen the bluish rose that bloomed on her white skin, red scratches like thorny stems surrounding it. Ser Boros' work, no doubt. _Paint stripes on a toad, that don't make him a tiger,_ he'd told her. Yet, the old toad still managed to sink his claws into her. 

Her long, coppery hair was pulled up and away from her face, but damp tendrils stuck to her neck. Beads of perspiration stood on her lip and drops rolled down her neck, disappearing under the neckline of her too-tight bodice. The bruise would fade. Maybe leave just a little scar. Nothing like his own twisted mess of a face. Nothing that she could not stand. This heat though…the white cloak was near suffocating even him in this heat. He was as bad as a buggering Northman himself, today at least. Too bloody hot. 

"Seven hells, you're sweating like a pig," Joffrey suddenly snarled. The Hound snapped to attention, but the king was not speaking to him. The girl dropped her hands to her lap, looking up with a practiced, bland smile. The Kettleblack could not hold back a snort of laughter. The Hound wondered what kind of sound he'd make with a dagger in his guts. 

"Yes, your Grace." 

"Joffrey, please. Don't insult the lady." Cersei smiled with her lips, her green eyes narrowed as she took in Sansa's pallor. "Our little northern princess still isn't used to our southern summers. Are you quite well, dear? You do look pale." She lifted her goblet of wine and sipped, watching the girl over the rim. 

"Yes, your Grace. Just a little warm, my queen," The little bird's courtesies were chirped out as light as ever. She did look peaked, however. "And my tummy…" 

"Gods!" sneered Joffrey, "Who wants to hear about that! Go clean yourself up." The Hound's mouth twitched again. He glanced at the Kettleblack, who grinned. 

"Yes, my dear, you do look like you need to lie down. Clever of you to notice, Joffrey. You must treasure your little bride and see to her comforts. Hound!" He turned to the queen, "take Lady Sansa to her chambers." 

"Yes, my queen," he answered and moved to guide the girl out the door. He hoped she wouldn't vomit before they got to the hall. 

"We'll save some of these yummy cakes for you." Cersei's smile was glittering bright, "I'm sure you'll have the stomach for them later." 

"Thank you, your Grace," and the girl stood and followed the Hound out the door. The air was cooler in the dim passageway, and once they turned the corner to the hall that led to her chambers, she breathed deeply. 

He could see her from the corner of his eye, peeping up at him, the good side of him, at least, "I miss the snow," she volunteered. She sounded more pert already, away from Joffrey and the queen. 

"Even in summer, we'd have snow," she offered politely. Was she waiting for his response? He did not look at her, but he nodded. "Even in high summer sometimes there would even be drifts upon the ground." _Stupid little chit, chattering on about the weather._ She was never going to see the snows of home again. Didn't she know that? 

"I remember," he replied. There had been snow at Winterfell the morning they left. Soft, little flakes drifting down. He'd imagined he could feel their coolness even on the twisted, scars on his face, though he could not feel much of anything there anymore. The flakes had landed on his lips, cold little kisses, and he remembered how they had caught in the bright, coppery hair of the little bird, like little diamonds, twinkling in the morning light as she rode out of the gates alongside her golden prince, his snarling dog keeping watch over both. How simple it all was then. Snow and earth and the hard stone of Winterfell. None of this squalid intrigue of court. Honest. 

"You do?" 

He looked down into her bright, blue eyes, bright with this shared memory of her home and steeled himself. _Don't look like that, girl. Don't…_

He took her by the elbow, careful of the hidden bruise, and steered her toward her door, pushing her inside. 

"Cold and pure, it was, " he replied. A small smile, a real smile that lit her eyes, to know that someone remembered her home. "It's never like that here," he rasped out, and turned to leave and slam the door before he could see her face fall. 

* * *

><p>He stank. He stank of fire and blood and sweat and wine. There was not enough wine. There would never be enough wine. His head lolled back and he stared, wild-eyed at the tree limbs above him. Stranger stomped impatiently, but Sandor was staring at the leaves, brown and gold and crimson….crimson like fire, like her hair, the little bird's hair….the little bird who sang so sweet…The leaves were falling, falling on his face, landing in his hair. Autumn. He was a dead dog in the gold of autumn grass. <em>Winter is coming.<em> He rasped a desperate, grating sob of laughter at the thought, and Stranger snorted nervously at the sound. Summer is over. I am over. I am lost. Gods, she is lost, and the stupid little bird doesn't even know it….but he knew, he knew, he knew. There was not enough wine in the world to blur that knowledge. 

* * *

><p>The spade hit another stone sending a jolt up his arm. The ground was rocky at the best of times, but even though autumn was not yet over, there was snow and ice in the air. It would not be long before the ground would be too frozen to dig deeply, and where would they plant the bodies then? There were not so many as there had been, a steady stream of the dead drifting down, washing up on shore. There was just one today. A girl, maybe sixteen. Her water soaked hair may have been red once. He did not know the color of her eyes, but her skin was bloated and white. The brothers had washed her and wrapped her in grave cloths, and she waited in polite silence next to the grave he dug for her. He tossed the rock over his shoulder and continued to dig, making it as deep and comfortable as he could. A peasant girl, might be a shepherdess. He wondered if she sang as she tended her flock, churned her butter. Girls liked songs didn't they? So did he, once. Sandor liked songs very much. The Hound didn't care much for them, not those kinds of songs at least, but he was dead. Buried in his own grave next to the river. He thought about singing her a song while he dug, but he only seemed to remember hymns now. No <em>Florian and Jonquil<em> for a quiet brother. He considered the _Mother's Hymn_, the words were always fresh in his mind, but he quickly tossed that thought over his shoulder with the next spadeful of earth. 

When the girl's final bed was as soft and proper as he could make it, he hauled himself out of the hole and stood for a moment considering her still, white form. He squatted briefly, stretching his injured leg a moment before lifting the dead weight in his arms. He gently placed the girl in the grave, thankful her face was hidden by the winding cloth. He was happy to throw dirt in the face of the living, but not the dead. He lifted his spade once more, and put his weight full on the weak leg. 

He could not say the leg was good as new, but he could lift the girl's body easily enough. No staggering about like a drunk anymore, at least. Though sometimes he wished he were drunk. Wished he could drink himself into an oblivion that he'd never wake from. The cider and ale that the brother's made, while sweet and good, did not satisfy like the sour Dornish red he loved. 

Though the thought of wine-soaked death was often with him, he thought maybe he was not done living yet. He just was not sure what to live for. For these brothers? Casting his lot with these gentled men, pressing apples, carving driftwood, reading the scriptures. Day in, day out. He was only thirty-one. He could live another thirty or forty years in a place like this, especially if the isle remained as peaceful as it was. Though danger _was_ near, the Saltpans…that was bad business. Still, who could say? Could he learn to live among his brothers? So many brothers. Too many. 

He thought about Stranger, kicking and trumpeting in his stall. He grunted a quiet laugh thinking about poor Brother Rawney's broken shin and Brother Gilliam's missing ear. Served them right, trying to cut off Stranger's balls, put him behind a plow. Besides, who needed two ears? He surely didn't, but he wasn't sure that he was ready to be gelded yet, either. He began to fill the grave, tossing clods of black earth onto the dead girl. 

* * *

><p>She was pale as death. Paler than the dead girl he'd buried all those months ago. Shock maybe, or was it the color of her hair. It was wrong. Washed her out. Worry and fatigue had lined her brow. <p>

She had cradled the sickly little bastard that was her cousin Robert all the way from the Gates of the Moon to this refuge of the Quiet Brothers. Lady Arryn's boy. He'd been a puling, sickly lad, sucking on his mother's sagging teat long past proper the last time he'd seen him in King's Landing. He'd teased the she-wolf with the prospect of being married off to the sad little titty-sucker. He'd almost guessed correctly, curse him, except he'd picked the wrong girl. 

The little bird had been betrothed to the young falcon. At least, at some point, before Lady Arryn had fallen from the moon door in her madness. Or had she been pushed. The chirping little bird seemed half-mad herself when she stumbled into the Isle, led by Septon Meribald and a blue-eyed mule girl, the little lord limp and white across the back of the saddle. It was difficult to make out her story as the details kept shifting, much like her name. _Alayne, Alayne,_ Sweetrobin had gasped out when the Elder Brother took him from her arms, carrying him off to examine him. 

The mule girl, Mya the little bird had called her, was seeing to her beasts in the stable with Brother Gilliam, but the bird waited in the Hermit's Hole with Septon Meribald. He had no business going back there. After helping Elder Brother with the boy, he had his evening duties to attend in the dining hall, but bugger that, he _would_ see her. 

He entered the room quietly, listening to her rambling words to the old man: Poison, murder, Baelish. 

_What have they done to you, little bird?_

He wondered if had spoken aloud, for those blue eyes turned and fell upon him. His face was swathed in his scarf, as usual, but his hood had fallen back in helping bring the flailing boy into the Elder Brother's rooms. 

His heart, it must be his heart, clenched when he felt those eyes upon him, wide and wondering. 

_Little bird._

He braced himself to be denounced, for her anger to scald him for what he had done to her. His dagger. The stolen song. The little bird left alone for the lions to savage. Brave little bird, saving herself and the boy when he could not even save himself, let alone her or her wolf sister. 

"Oh!" it was a soft, little gasp that fell from her lips, and wonder of wonders, she took a step toward him, lifting her hand as if she would touch his face. He flinched, expecting a strike, deserving a slap and more. She _had_ touched his face once. She had sung for him and cupped his cheek as he wept, and for one wild moment, he was back in her bed, hovering over her with a knife as she caressed him. He quickly realized she wanted confirmation, and under the watchful eyes of the barefooted Septon and the blue-eyed bird, he pulled the woolen scarf away from his face. 

"It _is_ you." He voice was soft, but her eyes flashed bright with something he did not understand, had never seen in a woman's eyes before. She had grown this little bird. 

Not so little anymore. 

"I had wondered…" she paused, but those bright eyes searched his face, taking in every craggy, hateful bit of it, "…wondered where you went…." She made to smile, "I-I am glad you have made peace with the gods." She glanced at Septon Meribald, and back at him. "Do you know Joffrey's dead?" she asked abruptly. 

Sandor nodded, frowning at the disjointed speech. Frowning when a rising heat inside his chest told him he should be smiling, shouting with joy, but the little bird was wearied and on the verge of collapse, swaying on her feet. That old instinct flared and he reached out to steady her, a hand upon her shoulder. 

"I fear I am the one who killed him," the little bird squeaked out in a faint little breath. She brought her hand to her mouth, covering the hysterical little sound that escaped her.

He caught the old septon's eye, who quickly understood. 

"Come, my lady. The journey has been hard on us all. The explanations can wait 'til tomorrow. Lord Robert is in the best of hands. Elder Brother has brought more than one man back from the brink of death." He made to take the girl's hand to lead her away. 

"Wait," the little bird stayed where she was, standing just an arm's length in front of Sandor. She gaped at him. His hair, his scarred cheek, his lips…she stared a long moment at his mouth before swallowing hard and leaning closer. "May I ask you a question?" 

He nodded again. Such a polite little thing, even now. Bugger all the brothers with a seven-pointed star if he wouldn't answer her question. He'd taken no vows to not speak, but her question left him speechless. 

"Who am I?" she whispered, her hand fluttering toward him again. His head reared back appalled. Who was she? What kind of question was that? Who was she? Damned if he knew who he was most days. 

_What was wrong with the girl?_

The pretty little bird, white with exhaustion, waited before him, twisting her hands together. 

"You…," his voice, never beautiful, cracked even worse with disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again, "You're…the little bird." A bright little bird with her feathers dyed. Flown from one cage only to be caught in another. Battered by the winds…but she frowned and shook her head angrily. 

"No. Too many damn birds. Falcons and mockingbirds. I am done with birds," and suddenly the girl's resemblance to her bitch of a sister was eerie, her eyes narrow and her teeth bared. She was a wolf. 

"Who am I?" she implored him, her mouth turning down at the corners, the flash of anger gone as suddenly as it had appeared. 

He reached out, not even realizing he was doing it until it was done, cupping her chin in his hand. He tilted her head back and searched her face. He'd left a girl behind in King's Landing, but the girl had grown into a woman. The youthful roundness of her face was gone, cheekbones more prominent, though that could be the stress of the journey. Her lips were full and soft, and her eyes…they were not the eyes of a stupid, little bird anymore. Wisdom, dearly bought lurked in their depths. When he realized she was looking right back at him, completely unabashed, he closed his own eyes a moment. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hand from her chin. 

"Sansa," he rasped out, feeling his eyes burn. He blinked rapidly. Damned if he was going to cry in front of her…_again_. "You're Sansa." 

She smiled serenely, "That's what I thought," and stepped forward to lean her head against his breast, "Thank you." Ever courteous, she was. 

Stunned, he stood frozen for a beat before tentatively reaching up to stroke her soft hair. He could see the top of her head, see the glimmer of copper at the roots. The fire crackled and the burnt chestnut of her hair was satin against his fingers. Could she feel his heart beating out of his chest? 

_Sansa._

"Let's get you to bed," his gruff voice roused them both from their daze, and he offered her his arm to escort the lady to her cottage. She needed to rest, and he needed to pray. 

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy._

The black rage flared inside, mixing with joy and relief so intense he thought he may vomit. He would kill them. All of them who had dared to bring her to this. 

* * *

><p>The boy, Robert Arryn, was recovering slowly, and King Robert's bastard girl spelled Sansa, sitting with frail child. They seemed to be friends, and Sandor was glad for her, that there had been someone to share her burden with. The Vale Lords had been notified, and Mya intended to return within a matter of days with an ugly knight he seemed to recognize from King's Landing. Brune his name was. He'd come for the mule-skinner, to see her home safely, and Sandor noticed the blunt, squashed face light up at the sight of the girl. <em>Poor fool.<em> The boy would follow when he was recovered enough to bear the journey. The Vale would have its true lord at least for a while longer. 

After several days had passed, days Sansa spent sleeping and eating and sleeping some more, Elder Brother encouraged him to go to her for a private conversation, to seek her forgiveness and find peace in his own tormented soul. The Elder Brother worried that the rage returned with such vehemence, such a desire for revenge ought to have long been quenched. Sandor argued that it was a completely different set of bastards that he wished to kill now, not his brother. Surely that counted for something? 

At any rate, he found himself knocking on her door and being admitted with a smile. Her eyes had lost their hysterical glint, and the polite murmur she greeted him with seemed sincere. Brother Narbert would have fits if he knew Sandor was alone in the cottage with Lady Sansa, but then, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. 

He had taken no vows. He was but a novice, and even the sworn brothers were allowed to speak during confession. He must confess to her, confess the Hound's sins and his own. 

With little preamble, he knelt before her in her little hive shaped cottage. In a moment of perverse meditation during his gravedigging duties, he'd once wondered if the brothers had made the women's cottages in the shape of beehives because the best honey could be found between a woman's thighs. Then, he'd considered Brother Narbert and thought that, no, such a thought, sweet as it was had never occurred to _that one_ and his ilk. Maybe to Elder Brother, but he wasn't going to ask. Certainly these little hives had never held anything sweeter than Sansa Stark. 

She sat in one of the little chairs fashioned from driftwood, like a forest queen on a rustic throne while he bent his head and sought her mercy. He was mindful of decorum in a way he had never been with her, careful not to touch her, speak in his overly familiar way. The Hound had savaged her. Sandor Clegane would not. 

No, he was not going to touch her, but then she had touched him. She reached out and laid her hand on his bent head, a soft caress on his lank hair offering him compassion and understanding without needing to say a word. He apologized to her for not protecting her, for stealing the song, for running away. And when he was finished, she gestured to the chair next to her own. He rose to sit beside her. He eyes were damp, but he'd contained himself, mostly. 

"Tell me," she said sweetly. "Tell me what happened to you. I spent so many nights wondering if I'd been wise to refuse you." Her cheeks flushed pink. "Wondering where you were. If—if I'd sung the right song for you." 

He looked at her sharply then, wondering if she understood what he had meant at the time. Seven hells, he wasn't sure what he'd meant, what he wanted. Maybe he should have fucked her bloody before leaving her to the dwarf and Littlefinger's littlefinger, but he was glad he did not. Sansa's eyes were cast down so he couldn't be sure if she understood the innuendo, whether she was casting it back at him now to shame him or console him. He was a filthy old dog, even now. Of course, she did not understand. 

So, he told her what he had done, where he had gone. Sandor told her of Arya, of the Brotherhood and his trial by fire, of the Red Wedding and how her sister she-wolf had left him for dead after trying so hard to save him. 

When he was finished, the quiet in the room was broken by her low moan. He was startled by her reaction. He'd tried not to hurt her, but his blunt, crude words could not help but bring her pain. 

But she reached for him then, heaving deep, ugly sobs, and he instinctively drew her into his lap, like a small child. Her grief was not beautiful, and she howled like a wounded animal as he cradled her. The dog in him recognized the sound, had made the same sound himself before. Her sister was alive though lost to her still, her family was dead, she barely knew who she was. Broken and hiccupped words came out with her cries. Names he hoped to never hear again: Tyrion and Petyr and Joffrey. Choking, blood, and blinded singers. Purple serpents and giants in the snow. 

She had wiped away his tears once, touched him with mercy. He could hold her and try to do the same. He comforted her in the only way he knew how, with honest brutality:

"I'll kill them," his whisper was a vicious hiss in her ear. He held her shaking body close. "I'll kill them all, and they will never hurt you again. I swear it. I vow to you before all the gods, anyone who hurts you will feel my blade. I will kill them all." 

She clung to him even tighter, burying her face into his robe, but her wails began to soften, become less frequent until she was finally still. 

* * *

><p>"I thought I had no more tears," she said hoarsely, after a bit, her throat raw from crying. "I thought I'd shed them all for Bran, for Mother and Robb." A residual shudder shook her, and she looked up at him. Her nose was red and runny. <p>

"Here," he took a square of rough linen from his pocket and wiped her nose for her. 

"Blow," he commanded. She blew her nose with a dainty honk and gave him a watery smile of thanks.

"Alayne couldn't cry, you know," she admitted hollowly. "How can you cry for people you aren't supposed to know?" 

He thought he knew something of that. A hate filled Hound did not cry either. He savaged and drank and whored, but the Hound never cried until the little girl reached out to find the weeping boy in the Hound's mask. He wondered what Alayne had done to make her forget she was the frightened girl. 

She stayed in his lap, weak from weeping, but calm. The feel of her—Sandor could not help tightening his grip on her, feeling the warmth and softness of her-he could never resist touching her, not even when she belonged to Joffrey. His fingers always found an excuse to grip her shoulder, grasp her chin. He never seemed to realize he was doing it until his hands were on her.

Sandor ran gentle fingers down her arm, a touch meant only to comfort, that was all. He tilted his head to look down at her where she rested her head on his shoulder. 

She sighed, and then, as natural as anything, she was lifting her lips to his. Those soft, warm lips pressing a not quite chaste kiss against his ruined mouth. It was over too quickly. She pulled back slightly, a surprised look on her face. He was certainly astounded, but not for the same reason, apparently. 

"It's not what I thought it would be," she murmured, a faint puff of air against his mouth, almost to her self. At that, his heart, pounding madly from the press of her lips stuttered to a stop. A lance of ice in his guts.

_Of course not_. 

Of course the little lady would be put off by the monster's kiss. Half his lips were burnt off. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch. 

When she saw his stricken expression, she took his face in both of her hands, "Oh, no, no! Not like that." 

He pulled back with a snarl. He would not take her courtesy, did not need pity and would not take what was not freely given. He would take the truth, but before he could open his mouth to growl at her, she hummed a little sigh, different in tone from the sad remains of her sobbing. 

"It's so much better than I remembered." A statement which puzzled him, but then she was kissing him again, and this time, her mouth was open a little, so he opened his, tasting the sweetness of her. 

Sandor had never done much kissing and he thought that perhaps he could live the rest of his life with doing nothing more than tasting Sansa's lips, but then she had stood, and tugged him over to the narrow little bed, the straw crackling underneath them. She had blushed red to the roots of her hair when, unbidden, she broke the stream of never-ending kisses to shed her dress, her shift, her small clothes, standing before him, naked as her nameday, the best bits of the mother and maiden combined, a goddess to be adored. 

His mouth hung open, but it never occurred to him to deny her, to do the noble thing and refuse to sully her with his touch. He was no knight. No true knight from a fairy tale. How could he say no in the face of snow-white skin, rounded hips. Freckles in the most fascinating places. Let him be burned alive in the red embers at the junction of her thighs before he would say no to his lady.

He ran his lips over every inch of her, the nape of her neck, her ears, the smooth forehead. He'd ventured lower kissing her collar bone, putting out his rough tongue to taste the soft flesh of her inner arm. He kissed each finger and from her fingers to her belly, sniffing her navel, running his tongue along her hip bone and lower still. She cried out, little bird cries at first, but when she began to keen out a wolf's song, the Hound in him growled and would not be denied. 

She blushed again when she saw him, all of him, his longing laid bare before her eyes. 

"Look what you've done to me," he growled, daring her to refuse him, but she reached for him again. When he was hovering over her again, nestled between her thighs, she reached up to stroke his face, his brow. She kept her eyes locked with his. 

Against all reason, she wanted him. She would have him. And so she did. If he was sharp and quick with her, it was because he knew no other way, but it was a mercy, a mercy, for against all expectation, she sang a maiden's song. 

He had never thought that she would remain untouched. She was the wife and the captive of two of the worst whoremasters he knew. She had been so bold to reveal herself to him, to pull him to her bed. How could he not imagine that it was the imp and Littlefinger who taught her the unflinching audacity that had her daring hand skimming up his thighs, urging him deeper and deeper. It didn't matter. It did not matter that he was the one to ruin her. Nothing mattered but the hot silk of her mouth and her other secret places opened to him, only to him. 

He had tasted hell when Gregor pressed his face to the brazier. In Sansa's embrace, he thought perhaps he understood a little more what the heavens could be, more than he ever had from the droning scripture readings of his gray brothers. She was snow and fire and everything good under the sun. He was hers. She was his. 

* * *

><p>Of course, they had to leave. How could he remain a celibate brother after such a thing. How he could leave her after knowing her—impossible. Where to go was quite another matter. She had refused the Vale, and they needed time to discuss their options. <p>

Elder Brother had been understanding, he always was, offering what advice and support he could, but the holy man could not help but warn him sternly about the sin of adultery and fornication. The girl had been a maiden—she was no man's true wife, but still the brother lectured him, compelling him to confess to Septon Meribald, even as they discretely brewed a mug of moon tea for the lady. 

"What's done is done," stated the Elder Brother matter-of-factly, measuring and stirring the concoction, "and while I pray for both your souls, there's no need to compound the problem." 

Sansa drank her tea with Elder Brother with a cool bravado that made Sandor twist his lopsided mouth into a grin. There was no false shame in the girl anymore. For his part, Sandor went to the sept and confessed without an ounce of contrition to the old man who had spent his own youth deflowering maidens from one end of Westeros to the other. 

"Go forth and sin no more, my son," Septon Meribald's eyes twinkled at him as he made a sign of a blessing over his bowed head. 

"It's not a sin," Sandor glowered. Their union was a sanctification, not a dirty rut in the hay. He'd had plenty of those. This was something different. 

Septon Meribald laughed, "That's what I used to think." He scratched one filthy, callused foot reflectively, "Well, perhaps for you and your lady, it is not a sin. However, it is unfortunate that Lady Sansa's marriage to Lord Tyrion prevents you being joined to her properly in the light of the seven before you go. Perhaps Elder Brother can figure out some way to help with that. A letter to the High Septon might work, though the man is dreadfully preoccupied at the moment." Meribald frowned and continued his pensive scratching. 

Sandor did not care one way or the other. He had her. She had him. There was nothing that would part him from her, not high septons nor imp lords. Wolves mated for life, and hounds were loyal unto death. 

* * *

><p>He had never known a winter to be so cold, not that he had known many winters. He had been a boy the last time he had seen winter, but whether his shivering and shuddering then had more to do with living in the tower house with Gregor than the cold, well, it was hard to say. <p>

One thing was sure, he had never had such comfort as he had now. The wind was blowing bitterly, but within the tent they had raised, it was almost cozy. Sansa lay tucked into his arms, sleeping as peacefully as anyone could in a drafty tent pitched in a skimpy copse just north of the Riverlands. They were heading North, North to Winterfell, claimed by Stannis, the Boltons dead or driven off. Sansa was going home to see what remained. She did not say it, but she hoped against hope that the rest of her pack, if any remained, may have the same idea. The Lord Commander at the Wall. The She-wolf. 

He had not thought of his own childhood home in nearly twenty years. He had left it at a run at twelve, never to look back. He wondered if Winterfell could be his home. He thought he would like that. He didn't know that Clegane Keep was ever home to him. King's Landing certainly was not. 

The only place that had ever felt like home had been with his grandfather in the kennels at the keep, escaping from the terrifying silences of the main hall. Any noise could set Gregor off. Sandor preferred a crust of bread in the kennels to a roast in the hall with his father and his brother. His old nurse, a fierce and warty woman not given to kindness, but chatty enough when she'd had a cup or two of ale in the evenings, once told him that his mother was a bright little thing, singing songs to her fretful husband. An anxious man, he was always seeking to please his masters, fearful of being tossed back to the kennels with the dogs. The family honor and legacy rested on his shoulders and the massive shoulders of his first-born son. The Lady Clegane had died not long after Sandor's birth, and his older sister followed just a year later. He remembered nothing of either of them. 

His granddad though…Sandor still had a faint memory of a rough pat on the head when he followed the elderly man about his work. Having just one leg, he was no longer able to do much, but he loved his dogs just the same, wouldn't go a day without seeing them. Sandor would hold the old man's calloused hand in his own dirty little paw, the man hobbling slowly with his crutch. His grandfather had magic when it came to his dogs, turning even the fiercest hound into a slobbering lap dog with a touch and a command. He didn't need two legs to tame the beasts. 

Sandor always thought that maybe he had a bit of the old man's magic himself, considering his black bastard of a horse and the little wolf girl at his side. Though to be fair, she'd tamed the Hound faster and more thoroughly than any kennel master could have done. Maybe she had the magic, too. Kindness, compassion…love. Magical and miraculous that she could love him and teach him to love her. 

Let the maid of Tarth sniff like an old woman from her position on the other side of tent, her squire Pod, cuddled up at her feet like a loyal puppy. He'd not asked her to join them when Meribald set her on their path. Her solemn vow to the proud Tully woman meant nothing to him. Let them go off on their own, back to her Sapphire Island if she didn't like it. It wasn't like he was fucking Sansa…at least, not _now_, in the tent, in front of an audience. He wasn't a complete animal. Not any more, at least. 

Rutting on the open road in the middle of winter under the starry skies might sound romantic, (he was sure Sansa knew some song about a forest lass taking a tumble in the grass—to be honest, he was sure he'd known a song like that once) but in reality, the wind blew cold and the ground was stony. Even the straw pallet they had shared so briefly at the Isle offered more comfort . As much as he desired her, he did not want to freeze his cock off, and they were both exhausted with travel by day's end. It was enough to hold her, to know that she was his. 

Propriety be damned. There were dead men roaming the land. The Others themselves, monsters from childhood nightmares battled great black dragons. New nightmares came alive each day, nightmares with Lady Catelyn Stark's face and others farther south-rumors of a creature with the body and brutality of Gregor. This Ser Robert Strong he'd heard of made him quail inside, his bladder weak at the thought of Gregor, never dying, going on and on and on. He buried his face into the bright, warm fall of Sansa's hair and breathed deep to calm himself. 

At any rate, anyone who was bothered by the old Lannister Hound spooning Lady Stark of Winterfell could kiss his arse, and that included Brienne of Tarth, Stannis _and _the Dragon Queen from across the waters, too. As if any of that shit mattered any more. No, what mattered was the soft cream of Sansa's cheek under his wondering fingers, the plush softness of her lips and the slide of her tongue when she kissed him in the dark. _I dreamed of you, of this_, she would murmur between her kisses. He had begun to dream again, himself. In her arms, he dreamed of spring, and of black and red furred puppies, running through Northern woods. He dared to dream and to hope. 


End file.
